


Tell Me What I Want to Hear

by ShonenAiSorcerer



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Time, M/M, Some Fluff, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2017-12-22 05:07:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/909278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShonenAiSorcerer/pseuds/ShonenAiSorcerer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fun times at college where Grantaire attempts to navigate his relationship with Enjolras. In and out of bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Say Something Stupid

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in modern times at a thus-far unnamed university. Enjolras may seem a little OOC, but he's eighteen, so I think he can handle a bit less maturity and still maintain his overall Apollo-ness. Let me know if it's not working, though! Comma splices and run-ons are often intentional due to stream-of-consciousness (like anyone really needs to know this, though).

They’re almost naked, and, holy hell, he’s got Enjolras underneath him. And then Grantaire’s got his wrists, dragging them up to the cheap frame of his dorm room bed, searching, finding the belt he’s drug off those thin hips. He winds the brown leather carefully, tightening around those beautiful, fragile wrists, leaning over Enjolras to place a kiss there.

Then he’s leaning back, straddling Enjolras, panting, daring a glance at that face only to see something he didn’t expect.

Dread.

“What?” he asks, breathy and desperate and so damn hard.

“Nothing,” Enjolras rejects. He smiles, and it’s a poor impression of a smile and Grantaire groans as he realizes he’s going to have to stop. He’d gotten so far, farther than they’ve ever been. And he’s twenty for fuck’s sake, and Enjolras is eighteen and eighteen year olds shouldn’t be able to pull up short like this; it’s just not fair.

“Apollo, you’re killing me!” he whines, rolling off, unable to keep from pressing his hand to the front of his briefs.

“It’s fine,” the blonde assures as he tugs a bit at his tied hands, “Grantaire, it’s fine. Keep going.”

But hell, he’s not even hard anymore and that probably means he’s seriously freaked out, and since when did Enjolras start lying to him about this crap?

“Shit,” Grantaire says as he reaches up to the belt and undoes it. He winds it around his hands as Enjolras sits up beside him, not looking at him, drawing his knees to his chest and hiding what his red boxer briefs don’t.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, fuck, don’t be sorry. I just, I didn’t know you wouldn’t like it.”

“I…uh, I…”

“Speechless, Apollo?”

“I’m sorry.”

Grantaire sighs and drops the belt over the edge of the bed as he speaks, “Stop saying that. It’s okay. Seriously, hey, look at me.”

Enjolras doesn’t.

“It’s okay.”

“Maybe I should go,” he says instead as he gets off the bed and pulls on his jeans. Grantaire is for a moment speechless himself, then he’s up, grabbing the blonde around the waist, determined not to let him leave like this.

“Don’t go,” he pleads. He stands behind Enjolras, arms looped around him, face pressed between his shoulder blades. “Please. Talk to me. Did you not like it? Is that, uh, not your thing? Cause that’s fine, man, totally. I should probably have asked, but you didn’t say anything, My fault.”

It had only been is fantasy for like, forever, but if Apollo didn’t like it, Grantaire could settle. And what the hell was he saying, being with Enjolras was about as far from settling as he could possibly get.

“No, it’s me,” Enjolras sighs, relaxing the tiniest bit in his arms but making no move to turn around. “I need to tell you something.”

“Uh-oh,” Grantaire presses a smile into his neck. His ease isn’t completely real because he’s thinking about all the pre- and (more often than he would like) post-sex revelations he’s heard before. He’s thinking about STIs and sexuality and, hell, asexuality because he doesn’t think that’s a possibility but maybe Enjolras has just been humoring him up to this point.

“You know you can tell me anything,” he assures, pulling him close, trying to comfort with little touches. He wants Enjolras to turn around, but he doesn’t. There’s a long time of silence, then the blonde sighs.

“I’ve never done this before,” he admits in a whisper.

“This as in being tied up or this as in sex?”

“The latter.”

“Did you just say ‘latter’? Uh, sorry, wrong question, wrong thing to say,” he babbles, unsure what he was supposed to say. Should he comfort, or laugh, or tell him just how exciting and nerve-wracking and so damn good that is. He ends up saying something stupid, “I didn’t know.”

“Right,” Enjolras agrees and steps out of his arms. He retrieves his shirt from the floor and pulls it on without looking at Grantaire. He finds his shoes and socks, doesn’t take time to put them on, and walks out the door.

Grantaire realizes that it could have been a beautiful moment with a brilliant declaration of love, could have been if he hadn’t screwed it up so badly. Story of his life.

~tbc~


	2. Say Something Unusual

Enjolras storms back into their room barefoot and red in the face. Combeferre looks up just in time to see him flop face forwards onto his bed and lay there.

“Grades or Grantaire?” he questions.

There’s no answer and he’s genuinely concerned. He put his textbook down on his desk and goes to sit beside Enjolras. Gently he takes the shoes out of his hand and puts them on the floor before raking his hand through blond curls.

“Want to talk about it?” he asks.

“No.”

“Need to talk about it?” he tries, getting an indeterminate grunt in return. “That’s probably a yes.”

“He’s going to break up with me,” Enjolras sighs, carefully rolling over to stare at the ceiling. Combeferre takes a deep breath, staying calm in the face of his friend’s melodramatics. Usually these were directed at controversial political topics, but he was young and not immune to applying the same passion to his (currently unstable) relationship with Grantaire.

“I doubt that,” Combeferre assures, now brushing Enjolras’s hair out of his face. “But why do you think so?”

Enjolras looks at him, evaluates him, apparently finds him worthy of further information.

“Because I’m a loser.”

“Stop that.”

“What?”

“Being stupid. You know you’re not a loser.”

Enjolras glares, clearly upset that Combeferre won’t let him have a proper fit and pity-party over whatever this is. Combeferre smiles because he knows Enjolras is only like this around him, this kind of petulance never making an appearance in other company. It's rare and thus adorable, and he appreciates his friend’s trust.

“Want to tell me about it?”

Enjolras opens his mouth at the same time Grantaire opens the door.

“Never mind,” Combeferre smiles. He gets off the blonde’s bed and goes back to his desk. He thinks about leaving the room, but he decides not to unless they request it. He doesn’t want it to become a habit for them, forcing him out of his own room.

“Um, hey,” Grantaire says as he walks into the room. He’s wearing a polo shirt, and Combeferre notes this only for its originality; it doesn’t have paint on it. His hair too seems to be more tame, brushed back rather than crammed under a cap. He looks much more put together than Enjolras at this point, who is laying on his bed, t-shirt rucked up a little around his waist and still barefoot, his hair tossed.

“Hey,” Enjolras answers. He doesn’t get up, so Grantaire goes to stand over him.

“You telling ‘Ferre what a jerk I am?”

“No.”

Grantaire raises an eyes brow in disbelief, but his general expression is calm and mostly unreadable.

“Well, I’m sorry anyway.”

Enjolras sighs almost silently and drags himself up to sit against the headboard. He pulls his shirt down and runs a hand through his hair, doing nothing to put it to rights.

“I believe,” he says, “that I should be saying that.”

“Yeah, well, whatever gets you to come to dinner with me.”

“I have work—”

“And hour. Just an hour,” Grantaire bargains, “We’ll go to the cafeteria and have awful spaghetti and then I’ll buy you ridiculously expensive coffee.

"I don't--"

“Say yes,” Grantaire interrupts. He jumps onto the bed, sitting right in front of Enjolras. He tugs at the younger boy’s hand until he gets it up enough to interlace their fingers. “Say yes, say yes, say yes.”

Enjolras just stares at him, then, “Just coffee.”

Combeferre tuts a little at that, but he’ll let it go just this once for the sake of their resolution.

“Okay,” Grantaire agrees, lifting their linked hands so he can place a kiss on Enjolras’s wrist.

~*~

They walk four blocks to get coffee because Enjolras can’t walk into Starbucks without inciting a riot. Grantaire wishes this was an exaggeration, but it’s not, and he’s learned not even to try to sneak a latte from the corporate giant because so help him if his boyfriend finds the cup in the recycle bin.

And how the hell had he ended up with a recycle bin in his room anyway?

This guy. Grantaire smiles and nudges Enjolras; he’s been quiet, seemingly lost in thought, and now it’s their turn at the counter. The barista smiles, exchanges some pleasantries, and asks if they want their usuals. They do.

They move to a small table in the back. It’s a bit late for coffee and a bit early for the poetry reading crap that happens here, so they’re mostly isolated, free to speak, Grantaire thinks. Though he cannot for the life of him think of how to launch into this conversation without embarrassing Enjolras.

“So, how awkward is this, on a scale of falling asleep in lecture to waking up next to an inflatable sheep?” he asks.

Enjolras raises an eyebrow, tries to hide his smile and fails, “Inflatable sheep?”

“Is that an answer or a question?”

“Question.”

“Well, I didn’t say it was me,” he grins in return, letting his hand slip under the table to rest on the other’s knee, “It was my sheep, though. You’re not going to lecture me on plastic-animal rights, are you? Because Mr. Wooly and I were in a committed, consensual relationship.”

“Noted.”

“Listen, I’m sorry about earlier. I didn’t know, okay? And if I did, I wouldn’t have,” he pauses and thinks about what he wouldn’t have done; Enjolras gives him time, looking away and sipping his coffee with too much sugar. Finally Grantaire says, “I wouldn’t have gone so fast, and I would have made it better and slower and…the best for you, yeah?”

Enjolras nods but doesn’t look at him. There’s a flush of red spreading across his cheeks now, and it’s so adorable that Grantaire can’t help himself. He takes his hand off Enjolras’s knee and uses it to gently cup his cheek, turn his head, and kiss him lightly. Afterwards, he rubs their noses together in that way that Enjolras claims to hate but Grantaire knows (or at least likes to think) he secretly loves. He pulls back, but only a little, keeping his tentative hold on the other’s cheek.

“I really, really like you, and we don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

Enjolras swallows, “I’m ready. I mean, I hesitated in the moment, but I am.”

“You’re sure?” he questions, dropping his hands and picking his coffee back up, “You’re not just telling me what I want to hear?”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras shakes his head, “when have I ever told you what you wanted to hear?”

“Point. Very, very good point.”

~tbc~


	3. Say Something Pleasing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras can convince Grantaire to do, well, just about anything.

It’s late when they leave the coffee shop and Enjolras is worried about the work he needs to do. He lets Grantaire walk him to his room, but kisses him at the door and sends him on his way. He watches, just a few seconds that he knows he really cannot spare but does anyway, the dark haired boy walk to the stairs, and he’s thankful for Grantaire.

He turns and goes into his room. Combeferre is still awake at his desk, taking notes and staring at a large biology book. He doesn’t speak, and Enjolras doesn’t interrupt his studies. He goes to his own desk, symmetrically located at the end of his own bed, and turns on his laptop before kicking off his shoes and taking a seat.

His books are there, open already, and he’s been formulating his response for three days. He knows his stance, his points, and his quotes; he also knows how the professor will react to the extreme view he’s taking (a view which he believes in without reservation) and he’s looking forward to some discussion. Dr. Sorrel might now allow him to debate at length during class (an annoyance, he thinks) but she’s not above calling him into her office. Last time he was there for almost two hours and came away with some new books.

Enjolras begins and falls into focus. He forgets Grantaire and everything else as he searches for the right word, the right phrase, the right, erudite allusion that might impress the professor and get his point across. Because though he does want to impress her, a bit, he’s more focused on expressing himself.

It’s hours later when he looks up, thinking to have Combeferre read over what he’s done. The overhead light is off, and the other boy is in bed. Enjolras has no idea when this happened and is not sure if his friend even tried to tell him goodnight. He shrugs, turns on his desk lamp, and goes back to work.

~*~

“That’s not good for you,” Combeferre tells him for the billionth time as he takes a seat across the table and eyes the coffee Enjolras is adding a multitude of sugar packets to. “Tell me you already ate something?”

Enjolras shakes his head, stirs his coffee, and then goes back to the newspaper he’s holding. He has a political science class in thirty minutes, and he likes to be up to date.

“When did you go to bed?” Combeferre continues as he steals one of the two unused sugars and adds it to his oatmeal.

“Late. Midnight, I guess?”

“I went to bed at one, and you were still up.”

“Oh,” Enjolras replies. He hadn’t checked the time. “Are you going this weekend?”

“Yes, if nothing else to make sure you don’t starve while defending the rights of man.”

“Great,” Enjolras deftly ignores the comment about himself, “Is Courf in?”

“Yes, and, before you ask, he said he can’t drive.”

“Who else has a car?”

“Marius has the Rio and Grantaire has the van.”

“Think we’d fit in the Rio?” Enjolras questions, imagining six or seven of them crammed in the tiny car.

“Doubtful. Eponine wants to come too. Just ask him, he’ll come,” Combeferre assures.

~*~

Enjolras asks, and Grantaire finds the whole situation way too funny.

“So you want me to pack you and your hippy, fresher friends into my crap wagon and drive three and a half hours so you can yell at some people?” he asks.

“There will also be signs,” Enjolras defends, refusing to give in and smile like the other. “I’ll pay for the gas.”

“It’s the weekend though.”

“And food. I’ll buy all your food.”

“Even snacks?”

Enjolras isn’t happy about this, and he feels a little like he’s being exploited. Actually, he feels a lot like he’s being exploited; he thinks that if he’d just said pretty please Grantaire would have caved, gas and snacks notwithstanding. Enjolras does not say pretty please. The please was hard enough.

“Yes, even snacks. No Funyuns, though, they’re gross.”

“What do you have against Funyuns? Okay, I’ll drive on one more condition,” Grantaire continues to bargain. “I want one random pit stop of my choosing, and you will not harass me about wasted time for the duration thereof.”

“But there’s a time schedule—”

“On the way back.”

Enjolras thinks it through, debates all the ways in which a random pit stop could go horribly, horribly wrong. Courfeyrac could fall in love with a truck stop waitress. Joly could come into contact with a rare form of bathroom-living bacteria. Grantaire could make them stare at the world’s largest ball of twine.

“Come on, you’ve got no ride without me,” he points out. Still, Enjolras hesitates, thinking. “Look, it’s either this or you have to run back to daddy and tell him you’ve reconsidered and you really do want that pretty Prius for your birthday.”

“Taire,” he warns, not liking this at all and really on the verge of walking away. Maybe they could take the bus; he’s pretty sure his allowance would cover the tickets.

“Okay, okay,” the other relents.

“One stop, one hour,” Enjolras offers.

“And gas and snacks. Real snacks, not Trader Joe’s granola bullshit.”

“Yes.”

“Congratulations, sir, you’ve just acquired the services of the world’s worst chauffeur and the world’s most questionable vehicle.”

He seals the deal with a kiss, but Enjolras is stiff and not quite ready to forgive him.

~*~

“Shotgun!” Courfeyrac calls, and Grantaire wants to hit him.

“No,” Combeferre steps in, “Enjolras rides up front. Do you want another Richmond Incident?”

Courfeyrac hastily concedes that he does not, and Grantaire raises a questioning eyebrow in Enjolras’s direction.

“We’re not talking about that,” he says with a hint of pink in the cheeks.

Grantaire sighs and picks up several of the glittery posters to cram in the back of his van. It’s huge and old and painted (by him) to resemble the mystery machine; it may have been a dare and he may have been a little too drunk to remember it very clearly, but his paint job is fantastic and, besides, he’s much too lazy to fix it. He catches Courfeyrac at the back doors, out of sight of his boyfriend, and asks about the incident because anything that can make Enjolras blush is worth asking about. He expects a story about arguing, about radio control, about competitive navigation. He does not expect Courfeyrac to shake his head and tell a terrible story about Enjolras throwing up in a plastic bag. Gross.

“I did not need to hear that,” he decides.

“You asked,” Courfeyrac returns. “Now, though, he always gets shotgun. I think it was a ploy.”

“Really?”

“No. It was kind of sad. He took a Dramamine afterwards and slept all the way home lying in ‘Ferre’s lap.”

Okay, that was cute.

“And no,” Courfeyrac sees fit to add as he closes the left door, “it is not a good idea to drug your boyfriend.”

“I didn’t—”

“Bad, R. Bad. I’m really very disappointed in you.”

“Shut up and get in the van."

~tbc~


	4. Say Something Inspirational

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is not what Grantaire signed up for. Or maybe it is.

There are nine people in his van: Combeferre (reading a large text book and occasionally disarming arguments), Courfeyrac (sitting strategically in the second row of seats so he has access to talk to everybody, which he does, at length and high volume), Jehan (who seems to be knitting, go figure, and is sitting squished into the non-seat between Courfeyrac and Combeferre), Joly (who spends the first hour using antibacterial wipes to clean everything he can reach and cannot, cannot get over the fact that oh my god there is dirt on the ceiling, the ceiling, Grantaire), Bossuet (who is very careful not to touch anything or even look too hard at the car), Bahorel (asleep, and, notably, wearing a shirt that says ‘bodyguard’), Eponine (who claims loudly and repeatedly that she brings gender equality to this sad excuse for a vehicle, and will someone, please, open a damn window), Enjolras (who is holding a map and looking distrustfully at the GPS which Grantaire has programmed to speak like Sponge Bob; Enjolras has threatened its life twice), and himself. He’s driving. Barely.

He’s a bit surprised when Enjolras leans over to whisper in his ear, but it’s hardly a sexy comment, “I need coffee.”

“Okay.”

 “We’ll never get them back in once they’re out.”

“Drive through?” Grantaire suggests.

“Are you kidding? With this many orders?”

“Well, we could go somewhere simple, like McDonalds.”

The look he gets could not be worse had he suggested selling Jehan for gas money.

“We will not stoop to corporate consumption just to get coffee. Grantaire—”

“Coffee?” comes a question from the back. It’s repeated and passed around and whined over before Grantaire relents and pulls into a small diner that has a name none of them recognizes.

It takes nearly half an hour to get everyone back in the van, and at this point Enjolras is getting a little panicky over his precious schedule.

“It’s fine,” Combeferre comforts, “It doesn’t even start until noon, and you’ll have plenty of time to show them your speech beforehand.”

“Speech?”

~*~

Oh my god. That is not his boyfriend, no, Grantaire is in denial because there is no way that Enjolras is on the roof, the goddamn roof of the van, yelling through a megaphone at a sea of people who look almost as crazy as he is. Grantaire is either thoroughly embarrassed or completely smitten.

Probably both.

They’re in a city square in front of the courthouse. There’s an official stage where the organizers are (Enjolras has been there and has been largely disappointed that they have planned no talk, just a gathering). They have, however, allowed Grantaire to pull the van into the square, mostly because Joly claimed he would use it as an impromptu first aid station. Grantaire notes he’s making good on the promise by handing out the occasional My Little Pony Band-Aid.

At least he’s not on top of the van.

Jehan is at his side, holding a sign about free love, and he yells, “Amazing, isn’t he?”

Grantaire has to agree, because Enjolras is all passion and fury. He’s Apollo.

Then everything goes wrong. Of course it does.

Somebody gets into a fight; it’s nothing, but it’s an excuse for the opposition.

There are cops and threats, and Enjolras is still yelling even as people start to run. Grantaire rolls his eyes and figures he can’t go anywhere with the blonde standing on his fucking van, so he tries to help. He can’t do much, but he manages to get Jehan and Joly back into the van before he sees the riot shields.

“Oh, fuck,” he says.

“This is a peaceful gathering! We have a permit!” Enjolras yells.

He is told to cease and desist, and Grantaire can’t see the actual organizers anywhere which probably means they’re either scared little shits who ran away or smart little rats that have purposefully left Enjolras to take the blame. Not that he’s doing anything to help this assumption.

Grantaire spots Combeferre who’s staring worriedly at Enjolras too; the medical student motions him to Eponine who is yelling in the face of a policeman.

“Excuse her,” Grantaire buts in, “she’s crazy. Emotional disorder. Dementia. She’s my sister, head injury, I’ll take her now.”

When Eponine doesn’t respond to a tug on the arm, Grantaire grabs her around the waist and hauls her back to the van. Bahorel, plus one black eye, is lifting a limping Bossuet in and helps load a struggling Eponine. There are sirens and a few shots. Everything’s loud and there are police demands, people are dispersing, running, some lingering to fight it out. A few people are getting taken in; suddenly Courfeyrac’s at his elbow.

“Get him down!” he orders before he climbs in, shoving Joly in his haste. “This shit’s getting serious.”

“Enjolras!” Grantaire steps back to yell at the blonde. There are two police in riot gear at the front of the van.

“Young man,” one yells, “you need to vacate these premises immediately or we will remove you by force.”

“I have a right to be here!” Enjolras yells back.

Then there’s a gun, and Grantaire’s screaming, and Bahorel’s attacking the police and they’re all going to get arrested. Fantastic.

One officer goes down, but Enjolras is on the ground too, and Grantaire’s trying to get to him. There’s no blood, and Combeferre is shouting about blanks, and he’s trying to shove people along. The remaining officer is calling for back up, and he’s over Enjolras who’s getting up and still yelling (shut up, please, shut up and run) and he’s got pepper spray and, seriously, Grantaire is going to kill him.

Bahorel gets there first, and the officer goes down football style. Enjolras is on the ground with an arm over his eyes, rolling back and forth and fuck. Grantaire scoops him up and nearly throws him into the van, Bahorel clambering after and dragging the door shut. Combeferre is in the passenger seat yelling go, go, and and Grantaire’s squealing tires out of the square and flooring it once they hit the road.

There’s commotion in the back, and Grantaire’s watching for blue lights; there are none, but his heart’s still racing.

“We have to stop!” Jehan demands. Grantaire risks a look back, and his heart clenches. Enjolras is laid across their laps, his head next to Jehan who is trying his best to pry the blonde’s arm away, a bottle of water in his other hand.

“Milk,” Combeferre says, “We need milk.”

“Now?!” Grantaire demands.

“For his eyes. Shit,” Courfeyrac shouts, “we should have known. Who falls off a van? Enjy you dumb fuck.”

~*~

They’re at a gas station, and they’re drawing a bit of a crowd. Hell, they are a bit of a crowd with everyone standing around. They’ve got the door all open and Enjolras laid in the second seat, Jehan holding his head, Grantaire his hands, and Courfeyrac a borrowed towel, as Combeferre does his best to rinse his eyes and apply the milk. He’s trying to take it with minimal fuss, but Grantaire still winces at every inadvertent hiss of pain.

It’s Enjolras that tells them they need Dawn and someone goes in to get it. Of course he knows. Grantaire rolls his eyes and uses the end of the towel to wipe his boyfriend’s nose.

“Very pretty,” he comments as Enjolras glares, coughing a little and trying to be tough.

They mix soap and water and work to get the burning oil off his face. Combeferre’s more patient that Grantaire can even imagine being, telling him again and again not to rub it and just to lay still. He doesn’t once the younger boy what a stupid shit he is, though Grantaire thinks he probably has an opinion on that. Grantaire for his part does his best to keep his mouth shut; it works, mostly.

“Better,” Enjolras finally says, waving them off. Combeferre wipes his face gently with water, then herds the rest of them inside with promises of caffeine and candy. Enjolras rubs at his red and swollen eyes, and Grantaire pulls his hands away.

Enjolras tries to recover. Grantaire cannot for the life of him manage to leave the blonde’s side. He’s crouched between the seats, pushing back curls from Enjolras’s forehead, carefully avoiding the tender flesh around his eyes. He looks like he’s been crying, or rubbing his face with a cat. Grantaire wonders if Enjolras is even allergic to cats, because he seems like that kind of person. He makes a mental note to ask later.

“Okay?” Grantaire asks now.

“Sorry,” Enjolras answers as he uses the end of his t-shirt to wipe his nose. It sounds so completely insincere that it jolts a smile from him.

“No, you’re not.”

A little smile in return, “Not really. It was exciting.”

“Did you even notice my getaway driving?”

“I missed it. You’ll have to do it again.”

“Sure. Just, you,” he sighs, takes his hand away, “you don’t have to do this again.”

“Grantaire?”

Enjolras struggles to sit up, so Grantaire helps and they end up side by side.

“I don’t like this,” Grantaire confides, “This isn’t just talk, Apollo. This is serious end-up-in-jail kind of shit.”

“I know,” he answers solemnly. “This is exactly what I want.”

“Sitting in the back of my van with pepper spray in your eyes?”

“Okay, not exactly. But,” he shakes his head, makes some kind of gesture in the air as he gathers his thoughts and turns to Grantaire with passion, “Talking to the people, letting them know what’s really going on. I want to be there on the front lines when change happens. I want to make change.”

Grantaire stares at him, then laughs, “You can’t change it.”

“Don’t laugh at me,” Enjolras warns, completely serious and pulling away from him.

“Not you, I swear,” Grantaire quickly counters, taking his hand, “I just don’t think this free world, free love, free people thing is going to actually happen. So what’s the use of getting beat up over it?”

“We have to try.”

Grantaire stops and looks and damn he really means it. Grantaire thought it might have been talk, schoolboys playing at politics and revolution, taking up causes like taking up sports and clubs and girls. But Enjolras is not playing and, shit, of course he’s not because he’s him and getting thrown in jail for The Cause is probably on his bucket list.

“You’re going to do this again?” he asks.

“I hope so. I really want to.”

They can fight and spend the three hour drive mad at each other, or one of them can give in. Grantaire knows it’s not going to be Enjolras, because, yeah, it’s him and he just fought off the police so Grantaire’s not so scary. He’s beginning to see where he stands in relation to social change, and though he doesn’t like it, he’ll take it because, well, Enjolras.

“Okay, then,” Grantaire says, “Then don’t go without me. You know what I want?”

“World peace?”

“Oh my god, was that a joke?”

“Shut up.”

Grantaire smiles and lays an arm over his shoulder, “I just want to take care of you.”

Enjolras allows the arm and rests just a bit on Grantaire, but, then of course he’s got to ruin it by talking.

“I don’t need to be taken care of, just for the record.”

“Uh, just for the record, who fell off the van?”

“I did not fall. I was shot by the police.”

“I don’t think blanks count, and, please, next time let’s just stand on the ground. Not that your ass didn’t look fabulous under that red jacket though, very stunning, very…motivational.”

“Stop talking,” Enjolras demands, shoving at his ribs.

Then Courfeyrac slides open the door and jumps in, mostly on top of Grantaire, “Let’s go man! Hey, look, I got Twizzlers.”

~*~

It’s five-thirty when Grantaire decides to go on with his promised roadside stop and a little after six when they arrive at Lou’s Diner, a shiny trailer-esque restaurant that promises ‘the world’s best peanut butter shake.’ Enjolras is tired and sore and not duly impressed with this wonder, but Courfeyrac is excited and that’s enough to drag the others along.

They cram into a gigantic corner booth and Grantaire tries to get Enjolras to share a shake with him, totally cliché, yes, but also so freaking out of the movies. Enjolras declines, and Grantaire is about to make a counter argument when Joly catches wind of the conversation.

It is apparently, completely unhygienic.

“And what if one of you had mono or something?”

Grantaire points out that they would both already have it by now, much to Joly’s dismay and Courfeyrac’s amusement.

Courfeyrac eats a huge stack of pancakes and Enjolras sleeps with his head on the table; Grantaire feels a bit bad and is careful when he wakes the blonde. He even gets his coffee in a to-go cup and picks up eight packets of sugar. Enjolras doesn’t notice at the moment, but once they’re back in the van, he seems grateful enough to offer a small smile despite the fact that Grantaire has helped kill a tree by getting a paper cup. He must really need coffee, and at least it’s not Styrofoam. Styrofoam is the devil; Grantaire does pay attention sometimes.

Then Joly spots the sugar, and suddenly Enjolras is the one getting lectured. It’s funny for all of two minutes, then Enjolras, in a moment of what Grantaire considers strategic brilliance, points out that a suddenly sleeping Jehan has drooled a bit on Bossuet’s shoulder. Decontamination commences.

~*~

Enjolras has walked him to his room, and Grantaire stands in the doorway trying to find words.

Enjolras just smiles and leans in to kiss him, long fingers threading through dark curls and his free hand settling easily on Grantaire’s waist. It’s long and slow, almost tired. Enjolras pulls back, leaving his hands.

“Thank you,” he says.

“Stay the night?” Grantaire asks.

“With your roommate?” Enjolras returns, letting his hands drop but keeping that slight smile on his face. He takes a step back. “Let’s wait, for tonight, at least.”

“Yeah. Okay. Coffee tomorrow?”

“Nine?”

“Ten-thirty.”

“Okay. Night, Taire.”

“Goodnight.”

The door closes softly, and Grantaire tries not to think what he’s getting himself into because he’s in love with Apollo.

~tbc~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and next chapter will have SEXY FUN TIMES! Yay!


	5. Say Something Inappropriate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire has a new shirt, and it should not be as fun as it is.

It’s going to be a great day. Grantaire, though far from an optimistic person, has confidence in this fact for two reasons. First, he’s going to see Enjolras in a few minutes, and seeing Enjolras is always good. Second, he’s wearing his new shirt. His new shirt is awesome. This awesomeness is not because it’s red, nor because it fits just right, nor because he got it for fifty cents at the Goodwill. The shirt is awesome because Enjolras will hate it.

That should not be so fun, but it’s Enjolras who cannot contain his anger for anything in the world, and him hating something as small as a shirt is hilarious. Grantaire knows. He has other shirts.

And after all the super-serious bullshit of the day before, Grantaire can use some shirt-hating.

So he picks up his sketch book, sticks a pencil behind his ear, and wears his new McDonald’s shirt to the coffee shop.

Enjolras is waiting. He sits at a corner table, occupying the entire surface with several large text books and a reusable coffee cup. It’s Sunday, and he’s traded his favored fitted jackets for a simple black t-shirt that has absolutely no right to cling to him that way. He doesn’t look up until Grantaire buys his coffee, sits down, and taps the page of the book he’s reading.

“Homework?” he questions, then wishes he could kick himself. They are text books, so, yeah, it’s homework and he’s an idiot. Well played.

Enjolras just blinks at him, nods. Then his gaze shifts downwards, and not in a sexy I’m-checking-you-out-way. Grantaire can pinpoint the exact moment Enjolras realized what’s on his shirt.

“Seriously?” the blonde asks.

“What?” Grantaire questions, leaning back and looking down at the golden arches on his chest. “Like it?”

“You know I don’t. That is blatant advertising for a corporation that continues to—”

“Shh,” Grantaire raises a finger and presses it against Enjolras’s lips. The blonde silences but the glare is increased by twofold. “If you hate it so much, come back to my room and I’ll let you rip it off.”

Okay, he has no idea where that came from, but he congratulates his subconscious mind just the same. His finger is still against those soft lips, and he let it linger a moment longer as Enjolras’s glare turns into something else.

“Yes?” he asks, dropping his hand. “If not, that’s—”

“I,” Enjolras starts, stops, closes his book. “Yes, okay.”

Grantaire smiles, though he thinks it’s a good possibility that Enjolras will really destroy his new shirt. He’s completely willing to sacrifice it.

* * *

They end up in Grantaire’s dorm room, Enjolras’s bag and shoes hastily dropped by the door. Grantaire grins as he sits on the bed, his back against the wall and the blonde kneeling across his lap. Long fingers tangle in his hair as Enjolras leans close and kisses him. He makes some little sound as the blonde’s tongue works into his mouth, one of those hands drifting down to cup his cheek, holding him in place like there is some remote possibility he would ever run away from this.

They break for air, both panting a little. It still surprises Grantaire how good this is, how simple it is for Enjolras to turn him on. The younger boy is already flushed, mouth open just a little as he breathes.

“Just so you know,” he says, “Bad shirts are not a turn on.”

“Whatever you say,” Grantaire agrees, not without a hint of sarcasm. He doesn’t give Enjolras time to reply as he goes for the other’s neck. It’s a hot spot for Enjolras, and Grantaire absolutely revels in the quiet moan he hears as he nips lightly over the pulse point. He nuzzles there, feeling blonde curls tickle his cheek as he runs his hands up under the other’s shirt, over warm skin. He holds Enjolras’s sides, fingers over his ribs, feels him breathe, breathes him in.

“Want you,” he murmurs before he lifts his head for another kiss. “Always want you.”

There’s a little shudder at those words, and though he thinks its desire, it gives Grantaire pause. He leaves his hands in place, but leans back just a little.

“We’ll take it slow, yeah?” he asks. Blue eyes blink, clearing off a bit. Enjolras’s hands leave his hair (where they always seem to be) and settle on his shoulders.

“Not too slow,” Enjolras says, and though Grantaire sees the bravado for what it is, he smiles.

“Yeah, okay,” he agrees. He moves his hands again, peeling the black t-shirt from the other, tugging at the last moment and leaving Enjolras’s long hair in a wild fluff. It’s a wonderful excuse to try to smooth it down as he runs his eyes over a perfectly sculpted chest and taut abdomen. Grantaire would like to think that he isn’t into stereotypically Abercrombie beauty (and oh fuck he better not say that out loud) but Enjolras is just so damn perfect.

“Taire,” the blonde complains when the pause is too long.

“So perfect, Apollo. So damn perfect.”

Yeah, he has no filter. At least only part of the thought escaped, and he’s rewarded with a rather indulgent smile and a touch to his face, fingertips skirting under his jaw. Grantaire snags his hand, turns it over, and presses a worshipful kiss on the palm. He lets it go, moving both his hands to button of Enjolras’s jeans; the younger boy tenses, takes a breath, and nods.

“It’s okay,” Grantaire soothes even as he slips the button open. “You say stop and we do. I promise.”

Enjolras nods, his hands once again on Grantaire’s shoulders. He looks wary, but Grantaire persists. They’re not going all the way, he knows, but he can live with that.

He slides Enjolras’s zipper down to reveal the light fabric of his boxer briefs, blue with white trim. He doesn’t know why that’s hot, but it is, especially with the way he can see Enjolras through the shorts. He runs his hand down, fingers teasing the boy’s cock; he’s already half hard.

Grantaire flattens his hands and presses them under the jeans, sliding them back to grip Enjolras’s ass through his underwear. It’s firms and warm, and he uses his hold to urge Enjolras up onto his knees, still over his lap, as he tugs down the jeans so they fall around the blonde’s knees.

Enjolras  inhales suddenly as Grantaire runs two fingers along the crease of his ass, probing his entrance just a bit through the fabric.

“Mm,” he mumbles against Enjolras’s hipbone where he’s pressed his face. Gently, he works the underwear down, letting it fall on top of the jeans before guiding Enjolras back to sit once more on his heels. And, oh god, it’s Apollo’s cock and it’s hard and if Grantaire doesn’t breathe he’s going to die or maybe just cum in his pants. These are not appropriate options.

So he breathes, but it sounds more like a gasp.

“So hot,” he manages, trying to assuage the slight concern that’s growing on the other’s face. “Let me touch you, please.”

Enjolras doesn’t speak, just nods, and Grantaire reaches to take his cock in hand. It’s something he’s dreamed about but so much better, the weight in his hand, the heat, the way Enjolras bites his bottom lip and his eyes fall closed as Grantaire works his hand slowly up and down.

He needs something, lotion or lube, and it’s right there in the nightstand but then they’d have to move. So he licks his hand instead, a hasty measure, but Enjolras’s not looking; his eyes are closed tight and he’s holding onto Grantaire’s shirt like a lifeline.

“Okay?” he asks as he takes hold again, feeling his hand slide pleasantly up and down.

“Yes,” Enjolras whispers. “Don’t stop.”

Grantaire grins, falling into a rhythm of up and down, running his thumb over the head unpredictably which causes the boy to jerk in his arms. He watches each and every shift of expression as Enjolras gets lost in pleasure, in pleasure that Grantaire is giving him. When slick precum begins to gather, Grantaire glides his thumb through it, tempted to bring it to his mouth but not wanting to push. His own erection is pressed up against his zipper, taunted by each shift of thin hips against his own, but he can’t spare a hand, not when one is in that blonde hair and one is on that wonderful cock. No, fuck it, he’ll deal with himself later, and if this gets any hotter he may not even have to.

“Taire,” Enjolras says. He’s trembling now, and Grantaire is fairly sure this is a warning. He pauses, earning himself a whine.

“Open your eyes,” he says.

It takes a second for Enjolras to do so, and when he does, Grantaire rewards him by moving his hand again, a little faster, causing the blonde to thrust his hips involuntarily.

The idea occurs to him just before it would be too late. He pulls Enjolras closer, keeping his hand moving as the other gasps and writhes in his grip, struggling for air, his face flushed pink and eyes wide, locked with Grantaire’s own.

“Taire,” he says again, almost pained.

“It’s okay,” Grantaire assures. He leans a bit closer so they’re sharing air, so he can drink in each one of those gasps. “I want you to cum for me, Apollo.”

He speeds up his hand again, and then there’s a breathy ah from the other and Grantaire has just a second to do it. He reaches between them to pull at the hem of his shirt, maneuvering so that when Apollo cums the first spurt lands at the bottom edge of the golden arches. Enjolras trembles and thrusts weakly as he spends himself on the shirt and, at the last, over Grantaire hand.

He pants for air, and, of course, tries for words, “I…oh, I....”

“Shh, breathe,” Grantaire smiles, still holding him as Enjolras takes a shaking breath and rests his forehead against the artist’s shoulder. His hands untangle themselves from Grantaire’s shirt, and one reaches blindly to pat at his face. It’s rather endearing, and Grantaire turns his head and presses a kiss to the sweaty temple before he lets go of Enjolras’s softening cock.

The blonde leans back to watch him wipe his hand across the top of the red shirt. They look down together at the mess he’s made; Enjolras blushes and looks away, causing Grantaire to laugh.

“I think,” he says, “That it’s ruined.”

He pulls the shirt over his head while Enjolras crawls off his lap. He gets it loose just in time to see the blonde awkwardly pulling up his underwear and jeans as he sits beside him. Then blue eyes are back on him.

“Do you want me to,” Enjolras questions, making a rather awkward gesture towards Grantaire’s crotch which, yes, is more than a little interested in whatever he’s offering. But it’s been so good so far, and Grantaire doesn’t want to push it.

“Could you, uh, watch?” he asks because he has an idea.

Enjolras nods, a bit more enthusiastic than Grantaire expected, and it makes him suddenly self-conscious. But, well, fuck it, because he’s holding a shirt that has cum all over it and Enjolras is there with him and, yeah, fuck it.

He drops the shirt on the bed and scrambles with both hands to get his jeans open. He’s so hard there’s a wet spot, and when he gets them down around his thighs along with his briefs he nearly sighs with relief. He glances up, and Enjolras is watching him like he’s the most exciting thing on the evening news, and for Enjolras, that’s pretty damn involved.

Grantaire wants to make a show of it, but he’s so close. He glances at the shirt and picks it back up, turning the cloth until he finds the places damp with cum. He wraps this around his cock, gasping at the slightly sticky feel, of just what this is, and begins to move the fabric up and down.

It’s embarrassingly quick, and he can’t keep his eyes open as he thrusts into his hand. He’s pretty sure he gets out Enjolras’s name before he cums over the shirt and thumps his head hard against the wall. It hurts, but it’s too good, and Enjolras is close and talking to him and he’s pretty sure he’s saying good things.

Then the shirt’s gone from his fingers, and he realizes Enjolras is cleaning him up. The fact that the other is touching him there makes his spent member try uselessly to perk up, but he ignores it, helping get himself back into his underwear but kicking away the jeans. He takes the ruined shirt back and tosses it to the floor; he’s sure he’ll throw it away later, well, maybe, probably not.

~tbc~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this didn't disappoint too much. Thank you all for reading!


	6. Say Something Rational

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was just a chair.

Things like this don’t happen to normal people, Grantaire is sure. Normal people do not suddenly find themselves the center of attention when all they are doing is trying to buy a chair. He just wants a chair, no, strike that, he just wants to get out of here. To hell with the chair. He’ll sit on the floor.

Or his boyfriend. Who is the main reason he wants to get the fuck out of IKEA.

“Normal people don’t do this,” he hisses, tugging on the other’s shirt tail, trying to get him off his makeshift stage of a desk.

Enjolras shoves at his hand roughly and goes back to yelling at the growing circle of customers.

“This mass produced collective of things is not what you need! Consumerism run rampant! You must—”

Now there’s a security guard, and Grantaire is trying to apologize. He just wanted a chair.

They are, in short order, kicked out of IKEA. Enjolras is excited, and Grantaire is rather hateful.

“I just wanted a chair,” he tells the other as they slide into the van. “Can I not just buy a chair?”

“I warned you,” Enjolras replied, not able to get the smile off his face.

“When?!”

He frowns now, seeming to notice that Grantaire is genuinely upset.

“I told you no commercial shit,” the blonde says calmly. 

Yes, okay, he had said that. He had not said he would start a fucking rally at the furniture store.

“I only have fifty dollars!” Grantaire complains.

“Let’s go to Goodwill.”

“I don’t want to go to fucking Goodwill.”

“Fine. Where do you want to go?” Enjolras asks tersely as he buckles his seat belt.

“IKEA!”

“No.”

“What?”

“I said no, no IKEA.”

“And what if I don’t listen to you? You aren’t my boss, you know?” he returns, throwing the van into gear.

“Then don’t bring me with you.”

“Jesus Christ, I was just trying to spend some time with my boyfriend,” he complains, “And buy a chair. It’s a chair, Enjolras, not the end of the world.”

~*~

They part ways at the entrance to the dorm, and Grantaire goes to sulk. He’s angry and disappointed about the chair; he knows it’s stupid, but he doesn’t get brand new things very often (except art supplies) and he was really looking forward to it. And he was going to let Enjolras help him pick it out.

He also feels a bit guilty. He tries to tell himself that it isn’t his fault that his boyfriend is crazy but deep down he thinks he maybe should have done a little more research, or at least asked Enjolras to elaborate on that ‘commercial shit’ restriction. But it is his room, and he can have commercial shit if he wants.

Yeah. He can.

~*~

Combeferre isn’t around, and after ten fruitless minutes of trying to concentrate on his blog post, Enjolras changes his clothes and goes for a run. It helps, sometimes, when he can’t figure something out. 

He’s gone for nearly an hour and comes back sweaty but calmer. At least now he doesn’t think he’ll have to break up with Grantaire, and, he admits, that’s what was bothering him the most. It helps that Combeferre is back in their room working when he comes in. The other boy raises an eyebrow as Enjolras sheds the damp t-shirt he’s wearing. He throws his tennis shoes back in the closet and picks up his towel before dropping to his bed.

“I thought you were out with Grantaire?” Combeferre asks, not really hesitant, but cautious at this change of plans.

“We had a fight,” Enjolras says, and there’s a little sigh with his words.

“Over what?”

“Me being me,” he admits.

~*~

After a brief explanation, Combeferre sends Enjolras off to the shower. He closes his laptop, thankful that most of his work is done and he’ll have time to help his friend through whatever this is. He’s grateful, too, that the blonde doesn’t seem too upset. He’s not yelling or pouting, he’s thinking, and while he can handle most moods, Combeferre deals best with thinking Enjolras.

He ponders what precisely the fight was caused by. Enjolras had said it was over him being him. If anyone knows about this, it is Combeferre.

Enjolras can be…challenging, he supposes that’s the word he wants. The boy is passionate about so many things, and he’s intelligent and motivated and outspoken. And while Combeferre firmly believes these traits will lead him to greatness one day, to date, they’ve led him to a great deal of trouble. Combeferre has been witness to detentions, fights, injuries, and embarrassments, the last primarily affecting Enjolras’s friends as the chief himself was rarely if ever embarrassed by his actions. He has also seen triumph.

Enjolras is a leader, but he can be overwhelming.

And he is painfully new to relationships.

And Grantaire isn’t the most patient person in the world.

And, apparently, they were trying to agree on a chair.

Combeferre smiles a little, sure his friends will work out their furniture issues. He’ll do his best to help.

~*~

Four hours later Grantaire stares at his door. Someone is knocking on it, and he’s pretty sure its Enjolras.

He’s not sure he wants to answer it. He’s still sulking, and he doesn’t want to fight any more tonight.

There’s a fleeting thought that if he just opens the door, he can drag the other inside, pin him against it, and give him the best (first) blowjob of his life and they can forget this whole incident ever happened.

He does not do this. He gets off the bed with a groan and wonders if his relationship with the blonde is always going to be like this, a series of incidents punctuated by fights and the occasional makeout session. He hopes not, but Grantaire is a realist. And it’s Enjolras.

There’s another knock, and Grantaire opens the door. Enjolras stands on his threshold with a chair. It’s a good chair, very sleek and futuristic looking with roller wheels. It’s sky blue and black and probably cost a shitload of money.

Grantaire is not sure this is what he wants.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi,” Enjolras returns. “I bought you a chair, but, don’t worry, I have the receipt so you can return it and get the one you want. It’s just a gesture, not me trying to completely control your chair-buying preferences.”

Grantaire cannot quite keep from smiling as he backs out of the doorway and Enjolras brings the chair inside.

“You’re right,” the blonde says as he presses a receipt into Grantaire’s hand, “I’m not your boss.”

It is all very mature, and Grantaire realizes he never expected Enjolras to do this, to accept that he might be wrong. He’s not sure how to take it, so he spends a second looking at the receipt. It’s a place he’s never heard of, and it’s a gift receipt so he can’t see how much his boyfriend spent. He’s going with somewhere near three hundred because, actually, the chair is pretty awesome for a chair.

Enjolras is staring at him, but finally he sighs and turns to go. Grantaire realizes he’s going to need to say something to make everything alright.

“Wait,” he manages, “Come here.”

Enjolras steps closer, and Grantaire leans in to kiss him briefly.

“Thank you,” he says. It’s for more than the chair, and he thinks Enjolras will get it.

“You’re welcome.”

“So,” he speaks quietly as they both take a seat on the bed, “If I ask what’s wrong with IKEA…”

“Don’t, please,” Enjolras requests. He closes his eyes briefly, and Grantaire can suddenly see he’s tired, that he’s been worried, that Grantaire has worried him. So he stops talking and starts rubbing slow circles down Enjolras’s back; it a comforting little thing, and it puts both of them at ease. They’ll talk about IKEA later, probably at length, and there will probably be fighting, but Grantaire thinks he can deal with that.

~tbc~


End file.
